What Could Go Wrong?
by Artemis's Liege
Summary: The Xavier Institute takes a field trip to a museum in New York City. Certain students ditch to explore Times Square. Superiority complexes, gang fights, girl fights, crimes against fashion, and security breaches ensue.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** All recognizable characters, settings, and other plot elements belong to Marvel. Any products or copyrighted material belong to their respective owners. I do not gain any profit from this page.

**Edit: **Re-post due to revisions.

**Author's ****Note:** I felt that one of my other stories, "Kids These Days", needed a prequel to explain why Jubilee, Bobby, Piotr, Saint-John, Rogue, and Kitty were stuck in detention. And so, here it is.

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For a variety of reasons, field trips at the Xavier Institute didn't occur frequently. For one thing, it was difficult to disguise students with physical mutations. And it was even more arduous of a task to ensure that none of the students would utilize their abilities out in the open, for everyone to see and inadvertently reveal the school's true purpose, especially considering they would have to arrange for transportation from a public bus line.

Despite this, Scott Summers wanted to ascertain that the students of the Xavier Institute regularly interacted with outside world. It was important for them to remember that they, too, had a place in society, and it definitely wasn't as members of a socially downtrodden race.

So he was genuinely pleased to inform his ninth grade English class that they, along with grades sixth through twelfth, would be traveling to New York City to visit the American Museum of Natural History. The students, however, weren't quite as enthusiastic when they heard the news.

"But, like, if it's, like, history, why do, like, we have to, like, learn about it?" Sally Belvins questioned, adjusting her eyelashes with a mascara wand as she gazed into a compact mirror, entranced by her own reflection.

"Like," Shola Inkosi added sardonically.

"Actually, Sally, George Santayana once said, 'Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it,'" Scott informed her, walking over and standing right in front of her desk. "Besides, the museum focuses on mammals, fossils, and minerals, not the battles and presidential elections you're thinking of."

Sally had been too focused on her own appearance to notice his approach, and so she started when she looked up and saw him there. In the process, she dropped her mascara wand and smudged Robert Pattinson's vampire face that was imprinted onto her "Team Edward" T-Shirt, giving the celebrity's visage a rather impressive mustache. Frantically, she began to attempt to rub away the mascara stain.

"New York City," Amara breathed. She turned to Rogue. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Yes. Breaking into the New York Stock Exchange to manipulate the stock trades and make ourselves billionaires in the process is a great idea, but how are we going to get past security?" Rogue asked, looking at her blankly.

Amara stared. "I just wanted to go shopping."

Dani Moonstar crossed her arms over her own "Team Tyler's Van" T-Shirt. "Do we need to get permission slips signed by our parents?"

"That won't be necessary," Scott informed her. "Your parents or guardians already signed any required paperwork when you initially registered here for school."

"That's good," said Manuel de la Rocha. "Because even if I sent it by express, the permission slip would probably still take awhile to get to Spain and back."

"It would probably only take about a week each way," Doug Ramsey told him.

"What would we do at the museum?" Jubilee questioned.

"Look at exhibits," Amara replied condescendingly, a sneer on her pretty face. "_Obviously_."

"The museum offers forty-six exhibition halls," Scott told them.

"Sounds like a long day of staring at old stuff," Bobby Drake commented.

"I wouldn't mind that," Regan Wyngarde remarked, flipping her long, golden blonde hair over her shoulder and adjusting her ultra-miniskirt.

"Only if it was a reflective surface," Jubilee muttered under her breath.

Regan and Amara each sent nasty looks in Jubilee's direction, while Rogue, Regan's other follower- no, friend, Scott reminded himself- continued her habit of speaking only occasionally, instead focusing all of her energy into keeping her face perfectly blank. The boys in Regan's group, Manuel, Saint-John Allerdyce, and Jean-Paul Martin, didn't involve themselves, largely because Manuel was texting on the latest top-quality cell phone model, Saint-John, with his eyelids closed and his chin propped up by his hand, appeared to be in a semi-conscious state, and Jean-Paul rarely talked anyway and as usual, allowed his stony silence and expression of boredom and faint annoyance to speak for him instead.

While pacing up and down the rows of desks, Scott deliberated and prodded St. John's shoulder with a finger. "There's a time and a place for sleeping, Allerdyce. The classroom isn't either." He continued on his way around the classroom.

St. John stirred briefly, but his eyes soon glazed over once more.

"This is an opportunity for all of you," Scott walked by and confiscated Manuel's cell phone, despite his protests, "to expand your knowledge of the past, and examine how it affects the present."

"Let's do the time warp again," David Alleyne said jocularly.

An amused scoff emitted from Rogue's throat.

"Keep your feet off the desk, Ro- Anna Marie," Scott quickly corrected himself. Students at the Xavier Institute used her nickname so often that even the teaching staff used the odd moniker to refer to her. He frowned at her T-Shirt, which was, as always, black, but read, "Team Stephen King." Such a strange girl, but at least she had taken her motorcycle boots off the desk and put them on the floor where shoes belonged.

David raised his hand. "How will we be getting to the museum?"

"Coach bus," Scott responded promptly.

"When are we going?" Kitty Pryde queried.

"Two weeks from now. The twenty-sixth of November." Scott opened a desk drawer and dropped Manuel's cell phone inside, and then locked it.

"I'm not even sure I'm going to be here," Manuel said to Jean-Paul and Saint-John.

"That's a crying shame," Bobby muttered to Piotr Rasputin.

Scott sighed in exasperation. "Listen up, all of you. The American Museum of Natural History is one of the world's preeminent institutions for scientific research and you have the chance to see it. I want all of you to be on your best behavior. No petty arguments," he looked at Manuel, Bobby, Amara, and Jubilee, "no complaints about how 'boring' you find the subject matter," he looked at Sally, "no use of your mutant abilities unless there is a dire emergency." He looked at all of them.

"Define 'dire,' please, sir," Doug requested.

"Someone is in danger of dying," Scott returned immediately.

"Is Mr. Logan going to come with us to the museum?" Kitty wondered.

"Mr. Logan could be an_exhibit_ at the museum," Jean-Paul said scornfully, breaking his constant silence for the first time in days.

Everyone in the room, including his friends (except for Rogue, who was sketching something in her notebook), turned to stare at Jean-Paul in surprise.

He glared back at all of them.

* * *

**A/N:** Several characters, such as Sally, Jean-Paul, Shola, Dani, Doug, Amara, Regan, and Manuel, are from the comics. Additionally, I have changed Pyro back to being Australian.

And Jean-Paul was always kind of grumpy as adult in the comics. Presumably, he was just as bad as a teenager, because back then he was a terrorist.

So, does anyone have any requests for the next chapter? Character-wise or plot-wise?


	2. Emma

**Disclaimer:** All recognizable characters, settings, and other plot elements belong to Marvel. Any products or copyrighted material belong to their respective owners. I do not gain any profit from this page.

* * *

With a sigh of relief, Scott settled next to Emma Frost on the seat as the bus engine started and the vehicle began to pull away from the Institute.

"Are all the students accounted for, Scott?" Emma asked him with a smile, her pleasant voice cultivated with a sophisticated British accent.

"Every last one of them," he replied, returning her smile. "You know, I'm really glad that they have this opportunity. Thank you for everything you've done to make this come together, Emma. I really appreciate it."

"Oh, Scott." She laid a white-gloved hand on his forearm, which was covered by his coat. "With our other resident telepaths Charles and Jean away at conferences, you know that you can always rely on me."

"That's very kind of you," Scott said.

She studied him. "Is something wrong?"

Scott shook his head. "It's fine. Don't worry about it."

"No, please." Emma looked at him with fondness in her eyes, her voice low and genteel. "Please, let me help."

He sighed. "I just worry about Jean and Charles sometimes. I know that they're both more than capable of taking care of themselves, but still . . . " he trailed off.

"I think it's sweet," Emma said sincerely. "That you worry. It shows how much you care for them. And perhaps when Logan returns from God-knows-where, you can join them."

"That's a nice thought in theory, Emma, but I don't think it would be responsible for me to leave the Institute when Charles is already away," Scott said.

Emma raised an eyebrow. "Ororo could manage for a few weeks, don't you think? If she has Tessa, John, Logan, Matt, and I? Jonathan and Monet are here at the moment, too and they probably won't return to the X-Factor headquarters for another month." She frowned. "And there's that one human Spanish teacher."

"Annie Ghazikhanian." Scott sighed, mulling it over. "Maybe."

"Just consider the situation, Scott," Emma coaxed. "I'll support your decision, no matter what happens."

"Hey, Mr. Summers," Sally interrupted, sliding into the seat behind them.

"You're not supposed to switch seats while the bus is in motion, Sally," Scott chided.

She twisted a strand of wavy, strawberry blonde hair around her index finger. "Does this place, like, have a gift shop, where you can, like, buy stuff?"

"I think you're missing the point, Sally," Scott told her. "This field trip is about education, not souvenirs."

"But . . . couldn't I get an educational souvenir?" Sally asked. "Like a dinosaur laser pointer or lip gloss created from a special Native American formula?"

Emma sighed. "God help us."

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**A/N:** Let me know if you have any suggestions for places in New York the kids could visit, or if there's a particular character you want to see.

Also, feedback is greatly appreciated.


	3. Saint John

**Disclaimer:** All recognizable characters, settings, and other plot elements belong to Marvel. Any mentioned products or copyrighted material belong to their respective owners. I do not gain any profit from this page.

* * *

The lighting overhead grew dim as they moved into the next exhibit hall, and Saint-John was tempted to take out his Zippo lighter to bring some illumination to the gloomy room. He was surprised, however, to see Jean-Paul's expression of impatience; he would've expected his melancholy friend to be right at home here.

"Well, this is more fun than I know what to do with," Saint-John commented as their group of students filed into the Milstein Hall of Ocean Life.

"Manuel chose the right week to go Spain. This is incredibly dull," Jean-Paul replied. "I'm planning to depart as soon as possible. Would you join me?"

Saint-John feigned shock. "J.P., are you truly suggesting we ditch this field trip?"

"Yes, immediately," Jean-Paul said seriously. "Notice that the lighting in this exhibit isn't as bright as the others. It's easier for escape. Here, let a few people pass."

The friends allowed several other museum visitors ahead of them, separating themselves from their group.

"Why do you want to leave?" Saint-John asked curiously. "This is no party, but it's not that bad."

"I don't like crowds, I didn't sleep very well, I didn't eat breakfast or dinner last night, and I have severely misanthropic tendencies to begin with," Jean-Paul said tonelessly.

"Quite the list," Saint-John noted, nodding. "I'll ditch with you. What's the plan?"

"We find an exit and leave," Jean-Paul said without fanfare.

"Betsy- " Saint-John began.

"Doesn't want to be doing this in the first place," Jean-Paul cut him off. "She's only here because Mr. Summers asked her to chaperone. We're with other ninth graders, so she knows she'll be able to let us on our own for a half hour at each exhibit and nothing will happen to us. She's been texting someone, probably that heir to the fortune of his nouveau riche family. Wallace Worthington. I can't believe he managed to stay at the school and avoid all of this. Prick."

"That's inattentive of her," Saint-John said, frowning. "His name is Warren, by the way."

"I don't think that a college student's idea of entertainment is to escort several fourteen-year-olds throughout museum for the entire day," Jean-Paul said, watching Betsy. "She's wandering over to the exhibit on whales, and . . . she is removing her cell phone from the pocket of her jacket in order to text. Let us depart to the stairs."

The two fluidly moved through the throng of other visitors perusing the hall. They made their way up the staircase easily, Jean-Paul careful to stay a few paces behind and on the opposite side from Saint-John in case one of their classmates saw them and grew suspicious. Once at the upper level, Saint-John continued walking briskly till the wall prevented those on the staircase from seeing him and leaned against it, waiting for Jean-Paul.

"What now?" He asked, once his friend arrived.

"Do you see any emergency exits?" Jean-Paul asked, scanning the ceiling for the red signs.

Searching the hall with his eyes, Saint-John found nothing. "No," he replied.

Jean-Paul nodded. "There has to be one around here somewhere. Fire safety codes demand it. You follow the left hallway and look for one, or an 'Employees Only' sign. I'll take the right."

An amused grin stretched across Saint-John's face. "You've done this before, haven't you? So tell me, how many field trips did you desert at your last ritzy boarding school?"

Jean-Paul refused to admit anything. "It was far from ritzy. The St. Thomas Aquinas Academy for Young Men was Catholic, and the teachers were allowed to cane us if they thought it was necessary. Just get moving."

Still grinning, Saint-John strode down the hall, glancing around at the several dioramas he passed. Then, he saw it, in an alcove isolated from the other dioramas. A door marked "Employees Only."

"Bingo," he said with a smirk. Looking around to make sure no one saw him, he cautiously turned the handle, and to his surprise, the door opened. Pushing it just wide enough so he could see, he was gratified to glimpse a stairwell that formed an "**L**" shape, with an "Exit" sign at the bottom. He turned back to find Jean-Paul.

"Found it," he told Jean-Paul when the two met up again.

"Excellent," Jean-Paul said, offering his friend a rare smile, so brilliantly white it could be in a toothpaste advertisement.

Eager to escape the museum they found so dull, the two of them strode to the door, passing the "Ancient Oceans" diorama on their way.

"You should proceed," Jean-Paul said, once they had reached the door. "I'll keep watch."

Within seconds, the friends were quietly hurrying down the stairs, their freedom in sight.

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**A/N:** Reviews and input are always appreciated. I'm going to be tackling the chapter with Kitty and Jubilee next; where do you think they should go? Or should they ditch at all?


	4. Jubilee

**Disclaimer:** All recognizable characters, settings, and other plot elements belong to Marvel. Any mentioned products or copyrighted material belong to their respective owners. I do not gain any profit from this page.

* * *

Everyone else at the Hall of Gems and Minerals seemed fascinated by the exhibits, but Jubilation Lee found herself bored, hungry, and cold. She zipped her canary yellow jacket closed over her Dazzler T-Shirt, wondering why everyone else was reading the information on the exhibits with such ease when she had so much trouble, forcibly ignoring a nasty suspicion in the back of her mind.

"Yo,_ chica_," Jubilee said, nudging her closest friend with her elbow.

"Hmmm?" Kitty Pryde glanced up from the explanatory plaque she was reading on amethyst geodes.

Jubilee glanced at her just long enough to read her face and then studied her nails. "What's that movie you wanted to see? The one with Leonardo DiCaprio in it?"

Immediately, Jubilee had her full attention. "_Inception_," Kitty said without missing a beat. "Why?"

Strategically keeping her voice casual in hopes of being able to persuade her friend, Jubilee said nonchalantly, "Oh, I just noticed that it was playing in a theater a couple of blocks from here. We passed it on the bus."

Kitty nodded, her eyes returning to scan the hall, her interest waning now that her hopes were dashed.

Carefully, Jubilee measured her tone, keeping her voice level, not allowing excitement or desperation to slip through. "It's the one you didn't get a chance to see while it was still in Salem Center, right?" Jubilee prompted, knowing that a good sales pitch required reminding people of what _they_ wanted.

"Yeah," Kitty sighed.

"So let's go see it now," Jubilee suggested.

Kitty's eyes widened. "_What_?"

"We get out of here, and go there," Jubilee explained briefly.

Kitty was shocked. "You mean, you want to just leave the museum and walk to the theater?"

Jubilee shrugged. "Why not?"

"Because it's dangerous," Kitty said without deliberation. "Because we'd be breaking so many rules. Because we'd be in so much trouble if we got caught."

"We won't get caught," Jubilee assured her. "We'll go to the theater, hang around until the next showing of_ Inception_, maybe get something to eat while we're waiting, then we'll wait till five o'clock, watching the buses at the museum, and then we'll board the bus with everyone else."

Kitty hesitated. "That sounds pretty risky. There's a lot of room for that plan to go wrong."

"This is your last chance to see the movie in theaters," Jubilee wheedled.

Exhaling slowly, Kitty crossed her arms over her chest, covered by her purple, puffy marshmallow jacket, the expression on her face conflicted.

"Come on, Kit Kat," Jubilee cajoled, invoking the nickname she had given her best friend in hopes of convincing her. "This will be so _much_ fun . . ."

Kitty wavered. "Fine," she said, swallowing. "Let's go."

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**A/N:** Reviews and input are always appreciated. Next chapter: Rogue decides to ditch or not.

And kudos to anyone who gets the joke about Kitty wanting to watch _Inception_.


	5. Amara

**A/N:** Like Jean-Paul, Regan, and Manuel, Amara is an X-Men comic character. I've never read very much with her, but whenever she appeared, she was always kind of snobby. And then there was that awakward moment where she murdered a teammate and never faced any kind of retribution for her actions.

These characters also feature in another one of my stories, "Speechless", if you're interested.

* * *

The Gottesman Hall of Planet Earth contained one of the most outstanding collections of geological specimens ever displayed in an exhibition hall. The majority of the pieces had been collected from expeditions in various distant locations, from Indonesian volcanoes to the Sahara Desert in West Africa. Each trip included working with local experts to uncover the most geologically significant rocks. Every specimen and model was chosen to illustrate an important aspect of Earth's dynamic story.

Amara Aquilla was not pleased to be there.

"I can't think of a more pointless outing," she complained to her friend Rogue, who was dressed in her usual reasonably fashionable clothing, only palette swapped so every article was black. This, combined with her very pale complexion, caused her rich auburn hair to stand out in stark contrast to the lack of color on her person.

However, Amara noticed with a surge of jealousy, none of this detracted from Rogue's overall attractiveness. She shook her head in an attempt to sway her envy, but stumbled as she walked and she grabbed Rogue's bare arm for balance.

Rogue steadied her and although she said nothing, Amara's cheeks burned with embarrassment.

The room was very slightly dimmed for the numerous video and computer monitor displays that were present in the hall along with the expected glass cases of rocks, but Amara was far from relaxed at the lack of bright lights. She felt angry, cheated out of a good time by being forced to trudge from exhibit to exhibit with no respite or likely immediate end.

"I'd never thought I'd say something like this," Amara declared, sweeping her long curtain of sleek black hair over one shoulder, "but Regan was lucky that she caught mono and was sent home for three weeks. I wish that I didn't have to deal with this, but at least I don't have to deal with that insufferable Jubilation Lee at the moment. God, she is such a whiny ingrate."

"She's very loud," was Rogue's only contribution.

To be truthful Amara was surprised that Rogue was able to go so many hours without speaking and yet her voice was never raspy from disuse; instead, it remained balanced and smooth, but barely any emotion was present to keep it from being a creepy monotone. "I hate the way she and that Kitty Pryde girl have all of the teachers wrapped around their fingers. They're nothing more than middle class, but they can get away with almost anything. I bet even if they were to walk out on this field trip and leave the museum, they wouldn't even be punished."

"Katie Pryde is overemotional," Rogue replied, no emotion inflected in her tone.

"Kitty, not 'Katie,'" Amara corrected absently.

"I don't care."

"Rogue, if I left the museum, would you come with me?"

Cold green eyes focused upon her. "You want to leave." It was a statement, not a question.

Willfully, Amara held her friend's gaze, determined to not show her uneasiness at the taller girl's eerie stare. "I'm wasting my time here. If I don't have to learn the material in school and take a test on it, then it's of no importance to me."

"All of us have to write an essay about what we learned here for Mr. Summers's class," Rogue said flatly.

"You'll help me write it," Amara said dismissively. "You always do."

Rogue didn't reply to this, her gaze traveling over the computers and exhibits surrounding them. People passed by them, their chaperone and group of students were moving on, but neither girl paid them any attention; Amara was focused on Rogue, whose alert, cold eyes were studying a brochure she had selected at the museum entrance. She now glanced up from it to watch as their group filed out of the room, returning her gaze to the paper in case one of them glanced in their direction. Though Rogue didn't look happy to be at the museum, Amara had noticed that her friend rarely looked _anything_ to be _anywhere_.

"Ms. Ghazikhanian will discover that we're gone," she said finally. "She'll call the other teachers and we'll be given detention. And worse, we'll be lectured by various authority figures."

Amara cast a disdainful glance at Ms. Ghazikhanian's retreating back. "Please. That slut will be too busy throwing herself at the nearest guy to pay any attention to the students in her group and if she does see that we're missing, she won't care. That woman is so irresponsible that I don't know how she ever became a teacher." She looked at her friend. "Whose mutations do you have stored away, ready to use?"

Those unsettling green eyes met Amara's own and she resisted the urge to blink and look away. "Mr. Proudstar's, Mr. Summers's, Katie's, and Shola's."

Amara smirked. "Don't tell me you weren't planning some excursion of your own, Rogue. Not with that kind of firepower at your fingertips."

Rogue remained silent, and Amara knew her well enough to recognize her taciturnity as stubbornness.

Turning on her heel, Amara began walking away. "Come on," she said over her shoulder, "I want to get out of this mausoleum as fast as possible."

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**A/N:** Reviews and input are always greatly appreciated. And by the way: if an Xavier Institute teacher should catch one group ditching, who should the kids be and who the teacher be? Tell me what you think.


	6. Bobby

**Samiamf69:** Yes, to make a contrast with everyone else, Amara is the rich girl who's a snob, but really has her heart in the right place.

* * *

To be honest, Bobby found the dioramas, with the fake animals with their glass eyes standing still in their habitats and everything, to be a bit creepy.

He wasn't scared of them or anything but the models were created to look so realistic that the result was rather weird to see them posing stationary in a museum. After a while, it kind of felt like he was staring at animal carcasses in each exhibit. And once that thought was in his mind, it wouldn't go away and he was beginning to feel uncomfortable.

Piotr, though, didn't seem to be bothered by this. With his artist's eyes, he studied each diorama, as if memorizing the scene with his eyes to draw later, once he had a sketchpad and a pencil. Starting in the first hall they entered, the name of which Bobby didn't remember (Something with mammals?), Piotr remained at each diorama for an average of seven minutes (At the third one, Bobby had been bored enough to time him), longer than he spent at any other exhibit and Bobby stayed with him through each and every one.

Now that they were at the final diorama, Bobby was worrying that their group had already departed for the next hall. This diorama was the last one at the end of the corridor, and somewhat isolated from the others. Too anxious to focus on the diorama's subject, which was something about ancient oceans, he let Piotr examine the exhibit while he turned his back and faced the rest of the upper level, watching the empty hall outside of the little alcove.

He was just falling into a stupor of tedium when he saw two familiar figures walk past; Saint-John Allerdyce and Jean-Paul Martin, clad in all black and striding swiftly down that hall like a pair ninjas moving stealthily in the night.

"Hey," he said.

Piotr's gaze shifted to him in an instant, fully attentive despite being absorbed in the diorama only seconds earlier. "What is it?"

"I just saw Saint-John and Jean-Paul walk by here. But there's nothing up in the direction they're going. Let's follow them to see what they're doing."

Bobby hadn't even finished talking when he started off, with Piotr on his heels, objecting in his deep voice intoned with a Russian accent.

"This is not a good idea, Bobby," he said as they hurried to the very end of the hallway. "You do not like Jean-Paul very much and I know that he doesn't think very much of you. You would only be antagonizing him."

Bobby wasn't paying attention to his friend's words. He was focusing on the upcoming dead end. "Where could they- " he began, but then he glimpsed another smaller alcove, containing only a door marked with an "Employees Only" sign. "They went in there," he told Piotr.

"So let them go," Piotr said with a shrug. "They will get caught, but we will have stayed out of trouble."

However, Bobby had already opened the door and entered, knowing that he could count on Piotr to follow.

They found themselves quickly descending a staircase, heading to an exit sign hanging above a metal door at the bottom and another corridor. The two stopped when they reached it.

"Do you think we could open the door and not set off an alarm?" Piotr inquired.

"I don't know," Bobby said, starting off and walking down the hall a few steps. It led to a door marked "Employees' Lounge" and another further down with sign that read "Employee Museum Entrance." Then he said, "They must have gone out that way. Let's follow them."

He didn't give Piotr the chance to protest before he cautiously cracked the door open, only a few centimeters. No alarms, no flashing lights, nothing.

"Let's roll," Bobby said, pushing the door open wider, and walking out, Piotr following suit.

He could see Jean-Paul and Saint-John a little ways ahead, strolling casually along a concrete walkway, as if they were merely tourists enjoying the sights.

"After them!" Bobby hissed to Piotr and they took off, sprinting toward their classmates. "Jean-Paul!" He called once they were only a dozen feet away.

Both them turned, Saint-John with raised eyebrows and Jean-Paul with a slightly more vicious scowl than usual. "What are you doing?"

"I could ask you the same thing," Bobby retorted.

Saint-John glanced at Jean-Paul, who barely looked at him. Bobby was reminded of how starkly different Jean-Paul was from the rest of the students. With his unchangingly expressionless face, icy demeanor, and winter pale complexion, he was closer in resemblance to a cold, white marble statue enchanted by some supernatural means rather than a human with blood coursing through his veins, especially when reviewing his behavior, which was strikingly dissonant in comparison with that of his peers.

The two companions held eye contact for such a long time that Bobby was reminded of the shared gaze between two movie love interests before they kissed.

Finally, one of them spoke. "We're ditching," Saint-John declared.

"We'll come with you." The words slipped out of Bobby's mouth before he could think properly. He heard Piotr sigh beside him.

A guarded look descended on Jean-Paul's handsome features. "Please don't," he said, though there was little venom in his voice.

"You two don't know much about the city," Bobby said. He gestured to Jean-Paul, "You spent all of your life in boarding school and you," he turned to Saint-John, "lived in a rural-ish suburb with your dad and stepmom."

The smile on Saint-John's face became slightly less amused and more ironic (read: sarcastic). "Sounds like Jubilation Lee is still reading the files in Professor Xavier's office and gossiping about us."

"Look," Bobby continued, "if there are more people, it's less dangerous. It will be safer."

"He's right," Piotr contributed, sounding resigned to his fate.

Saint-John exchanged a long look with Jean-Paul.

"Oh, fine," Jean-Paul spat eventually, only a minor amount of displeasure in his voice.

Bobby couldn't help but smile victoriously. "Cool. Hey, I know a shortcut."

"We haven't even decided where we're going," Jean-Paul informed him coolly.

Bobby shrugged. "Does it matter?"

And from there on out, everything worked out perfectly.

Except when Bobby's shortcut led them to a parking lot with a grand theft auto in progress.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Thanks for all input and reviews! Unfortunately, I couldn't work in all of your ideas, but if you keep on letting me know where you'd like this fic to go, I'll see what I can do!

Thoughts on Saint-John and Jean-Paul? (Other than their names with hyphens, that is . . . )


	7. Spider Man

The police were closing in, so it was time for him to get out of there.

"Don't worry, fellas! It's just a couple of medium-time drug dealers, courtesy of your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man!" Really, he ought to just get that printed on a card. He swung off the pavement into the air, gliding through the spaces between buildings, leaving the police to deal with the criminals webbed to the seats of their car, the illegal substances they sold for profit waiting in the trunk to be collected as evidence.

For the first time in a while, Peter felt genuinely happy. He was helping the police, he was actively making New York City a better place, he had paid the rent on his apartment for the next three months, his kitchen was filled with groceries, and he had remembered to clean out his refrigerator. Life was good, and he couldn't help but grin beneath his mask as he sailed through the open air.

Wait. Were those gunshots in the parking lot below him?

He lowered his webbing when he took aim this time, swinging down for a closer look.

A parking lot with several shiny cars, one in the process of being dismantled. A man projecting a circle of flames to surround two figures. Two others, a man with silver skin and one who was normal, stood by the one with the fire.

What was going on?

"Hey!" Peter shouted, swinging closer to the ground and delivering a forceful kick to the stomach of the one manipulating the fire. But the instant he did, he found himself tackled to the ground so quickly that the air rushed out of his lungs, his head smacking against the hard surface. The impact left him dazed and wheezing as he was forced to the pavement, held down by firm foot on his back.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the flames fizzle out, and the two men who had been trapped by the fire ran off, shouting obscenities.

The remaining allies of the fire fiend hastened to Peter and his captor.

"God, J.P.!" The normal one exclaimed. "You can't just attack superheroes! People will think that you're a terrorist!"

"He was attacking Sin," Peter heard a low but clear voice say with an undercurrent of impatience.

"Yeah, but what gives you the right?" The first voice persisted.

The weight from his back was removed, and Peter found himself being assisted to stand. The man with the metallic skin was helping him.

"I am sorry about this mess," the metallic man said in a deep voice with a Russian accent. His face shifted, and his skin abruptly transformed into that of a regular human, revealing that he was actually a normal teenager, if a bit larger and more muscular than average. "This was a misunderstanding. Please accept our apology."

Peter had mostly recovered by now, and he could see that the two in front of him were young teenagers. "Yeah, sure, buddy. You want to explain what's going on?" His spider-sense wasn't alerting him to any danger at the moment, but he needed an explanation for this. His apprehension increased when the fire-projector joined their little group.

"So here's what happened," the always-normal teen began. "We were trying to take a shortcut, and we saw a couple delinquents trying to break into a car. We stopped them."

"By using my fire," said . . . the one who had used fire. He had blonde and wore charming smile. "I think you thought I was terrorizing them, though."

"Well, yeah," Peter said pointedly. "You had them enclosed by a wall of flames.

"It was necessary," said final member of the group.

Peter blinked. Though it was the voice of the one who had tackled him, Peter didn't remember when he had joined their little huddle. He was a teenager like the rest of them, but was strangely beautiful in a manner that struck Peter as more than a little bit eerie.

"How exactly do you have superpowers?" Peter questioned.

"We're mutants," said the blonde.

"No way," Peter said, impressed. "I always thought that was just an urban legend."

"I had the same thought about you," the pretty one returned, with a smile that may have been intended as friendly but was reminiscent of a shark just before it devoured a cute, little baby seal.

This comment earned him exasperated looks from his three compatriots, but he seemed unabashed.

"Jean-Paul is totally sorry about tackling you," the always-normal teenager told Peter. He was nudging the pretty one, apparently Jean-Paul, with his elbow, though this produced little effect beyond bringing an annoyed expression to Jean-Paul's face. "He only did it to protect us."

"Yes, that's all good and well," Peter said. "But shouldn't you kids be in school?"

"We ditched," Jean-Paul said flatly. This statement alarmed the others, and wary expressions descended upon their faces.

The more Jean-Paul spoke, the more Peter was reminded of Mr. Spock, who he resembled in appearance and manner, with all the warmth and personality of Seven of Nine. Perhaps he was an illegitimate lovechild of the two.

Peter shook his head and decided to go with a few stock phrases. He really didn't know how to talk to teenagers these days, with their weird techno music and sparkly vampires. "That's not a good idea. Education is very important. You need to do well in school in order to get to a good college. Besides, school teaches you the value of hard work- "

His Fantastic Four communicator beeped, cutting him off. Someone else needed his help now. "Listen I have to go. But stay in school, don't ditch, don't take shortcuts down alleyways, and leave crime-fighting to the professionals, you hear?"

"Loud and clear," Jean-Paul answered, his tone slightly bitter.

"Okay, then skedaddle. Get to a better part of town, one with a lot of people," Peter told them. "And stay there for the rest of the day." He raised his arm and shot webbing at billboard some thirty feet away.

"See you," said the always-normal one as they cleared away to allow him space.

"Don't do drugs or drink and drive," Peter advised, remembering a few of the most important warnings an adult could give a kid just in time before he swung off to help Johnny Storm battle villains. "And be respectful to your elders!"

If he had stuck around for a little bit longer, he would've seen the three of them send Jean-Paul pointed looks at his departing words.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Sorry about Spider-Man. I didn't quite know how to write him because I'm not very familiar with the character. Plus, that one time when he sold his marriage to the Devil really confused me. I still don't quite know what to think about him, but I wanted him in the fic because his character is so iconic.

BTW, in this story's AU, not everybody is aware that mutants exist yet.

And Jean-Paul a.k.a. Northstar features prominently alongside Bobby in my story "Speechless", in case anybody's interested.


	8. Rogue

The fluorescent lights of Macy's burned down onto her skin, and she wondered if her eyes would be damaged from the intense glare. Probably not, but she still wished she had taken a page from Mr. Summer's book and brought sunglasses with her.

"How do you think this looks?" Amara asked from the closest mirror, modeling a pale yellow shirt with a jade green, satin bolero jacket and a pink scarf with a yellow floral pattern in pastel shades draped elegantly around her neck. She wore distressed, light blue classic jeans with white leather ballet flats trimmed with black grosgrain ribbon.

"Smashing," Rogue replied, although she regretted that her voice was so toneless it seemed insincere.

"Are you being sarcastic?" Amara challenged.

"No," Rogue said truthfully. Amara did look great; the outfit worked well with Amara's black hair, dark eyes, and bronzed skin. If she were to wear those clothes, she would look and feel ridiculous, with her pale complexion and tall build.

"Aren't you going to get anything?" Amara questioned.

Contrary to her friend's beliefs of what constituted as a purchase, she had bought several items: a pair of formfitting black pants that accentuated her long legs, a shamrock green button-down cardigan with a deep **V**-neck to keep it from looking too proper, a sangria red shirt with ruched sleeves that went to her elbows, and a long-sleeved shirt with wide, diagonal royal blue and back stripes, and just low enough of a neckline to expose her collarbone.

Rogue couldn't help but feel proud that she had located these articles; normally she was unable to find any clothes that she liked in shops, as she didn't appreciate or wear the latest fashions. But now they were just a couple of school friends shopping together to kill time till they had to return to the field trip they had walked out on earlier in the day.

"You know," Amara continued, "if you wore the right clothes, you could have Mr. Summers wrapped around your finger, just like Ms. Frost."

". . . I don't know what you're talking about," Rogue told her.

"Please." Amara waved a hand dismissively. "I've seen the way you look at him. His girlfriend is away right now, so it's time to make your move before Dr. Grey returns. I could help you, if you wanted."

"That's not what I want," Rogue said firmly.

Amara shrugged. "Suit yourself."

Silence reigned between them for several tense moments.

Checking her watch, Rogue said to Amara, "We should get moving soon."

"Just a minute, Rogue," Amara told her, studying her reflection in the mirror. "I think I need a purse to complete this outfit."

It was odd, Rogue mused. Ever since she had come to the Institute, from the first day, when Jubilee had decreed that "'Anna Marie' doesn't suit you," and baptized her with the moniker, "Rogue," she had felt like a totally different person. As if she had evolved to a higher level of mind. She taken the name, believing it to be a sign of acceptance, and now that was the name all of the students recognized, to the degree that not even the teachers referred to her as "Anna Marie."

But were Rogue and Anna Marie two halves of the whole? Or was one dominant over the other? Would she have to abandon all of her humanity in order to embrace her mutation?

Her friend interrupted her thoughts. "You know, I honestly enjoy the Xavier Institute, as much as I complain about the place. True, the teachers have their favorites and the amount of work we receive is challenging, but it's not so bad once you adjust." Amara paused, watching her in the mirror. "What do you think?"

Rogue barely deliberated before responding. "I think it is refreshing."

Amara raised an eyebrow in the mirror, then shrugged. "I can never tell with you. So silent, all that black, you're like a shadow of an actual person."

It was a common criticism of her, as if being quiet was a major personality flaw. But honestly, who would listen to these people run their mouths if there was no one who was closemouthed?

She smiled. People were very judgmental, unsatisfied that not everyone met their personal standards. It was simply ludicrous.

She refused to allow herself to be judged. They couldn't form an opinion on her, lump her into a category, and place her in a box. She never spoke, so they never knew what she was thinking. If she had to be mute to maintain her independence, so be it.

Glancing in her direction in the mirror, Amara noticed her smile. "Creepy," she observed.

Rogue only smiled wider.

* * *

**D'Fuentes**: Spider-Man is about twenty-two here, but yeah, I'm aware of the friendship between him and Bobby and that the public knows about mutants. That's why this is an alternate universe. :)


	9. Piotr

**A/N:** In this chapter, our intrepid foursome of guys meet some of the locals.

* * *

After walking several blocks, they arrived at department store, where Jean-Paul supplied a credit card and waited impatiently for Piotr to buy clothes to replace the ones he had ruined during his transformation. The four them then had found a tourist kiosk, from which they had procured several tourist brochures and leaflets, then made their way to an upscale restaurant that Jean-Paul was familiar with.

When Jean-Paul was greeted, Piotr concluded that this must have been a close familiarity: the hostess saw him and brought the manager out from the office, so he could personally seat them. Piotr had never been in such luxurious (and exorbitant) establishment, and his aesthetic interest was piqued by the large indoor fountain and life-size states decorated the main room.

While sitting at a carved marble table, waiting for their overly-expensive meals, and then while they ate their lunch, the four of them glanced through the materials they had picked up at the tourist kiosk.

"Look at this," Bobby said, indicating an area of the brochure to Jean-Paul.

"'Joe Quesada's marriage annulment services,'" Jean-Paul read aloud. "'Marriage has aged you, but you don't want to set a bad example by divorcing? Just sell your marriage to the demon Mephisto!' You know, I'm flattered, Drake, but one, I'm not married, two, I'm Catholic and so it's probably against my religion to have direct dealings with a demon, and three, this 'Joe Quesada' sounds like a hack."

"I don't think anyone with an I.Q. of double digits would have direct dealings with a demon." Saint-John glanced up from his magazine.

"Not that, the other ad that's- oh hey, an ad for Baskin-Robbins. Me and my younger brother would always buy stuff from their ice cream trucks when we were kids."

"Ice cream trucks?" Jean-Paul echoed in disbelief.

"Yeah," Bobby replied. "Those trucks that goes around neighborhoods playing happy music and selling ice cream."

"There's no such thing," Jean-Paul declared scornfully.

"Yes, there is."

"You're lying."

Bobby rolled his eyes. "Look at this advertisement. It's for an arcade in Queens, right by some neighborhood called Forest Hills Gardens. It offers over fifty different games and bowling. It would be a good place to go and hang out."

"That's your brilliant idea? Go to an arcade?" Jean-Paul arched an eyebrow. Bobby had once observed to Piotr that when Jean-Paul did this, all he needed were dark eyes and pointy elf-ears and then he would look just like someone named Mr. Spock. Piotr did not know who this was, only that he was "logical."

"Do you have anything better to do?" Bobby challenged.

Jean-Paul folded his arms over his chest. "Fine. I'll pay for the cab, so long as there's no more ill-planned heroics."

"This is a surprisingly good idea, considering it came from Bobby," Saint-John said with a grin.

"I'll remember that." Bobby scowled. He turned to Piotr. "This plan okay with you?"

Piotr surveyed the faces at the table; Bobby looking hopeful, Saint-John with a thin but genuine smile, and Jean-Paul, who seemed bored and vaguely annoyed, a frown of distaste marring his handsome brow. "Someone has to keep you all out of trouble," he said wearily.

Upon finishing their meal (Jean-Paul footed the bill; apparently, his parents dined there so frequently they just kept a tab they paid off at the end of each month), they exited the restaurant and sauntered down the sidewalk, deciding that since the street was lined with parked cars that they would wait till they reached a corner before hailing a cab.

At first, no one really bothered them; Piotr assumed this was because their mutations had aged them, causing them to appear older and harder than their years and to complete this more adult appearance they had firm muscles from Mr. Logan's Danger Room training sessions.

Maybe he was paranoid, but Piotr wondered if the civilians passing by were able to somehow tell that they were different, could sense something uncanny about them.

But then, as they strolled down the street, glancing in shop windows as they put a few storefronts between them and the restaurant, Piotr glanced at Jean-Paul to see how he was enjoying the walk. He had noticed that his aloof classmate seemed somewhat more emotive without Manuel around, and was curious about this. He turned his attention to Jean-Paul a split second before a woman crashed into him.

Immediately, anger and impatience flashed across Jean-Paul's face, before his features went blank, then were overcome by a cold expression. "You should watch where you're going," he told the woman, his tone positively frigid.

"S-s-sorry," she giggled, her words slurred. She was as drunk as a sailor, so utterly plastered that the scent of liquor exuding off of her person was apparent to even Piotr, who was thankful to be standing several feet away from her. But other than her inebriated state, there was nothing noticeable about her appearance. Although young and girl-next-door pretty, the only remarkable feature she possessed was that she was so unremarkable. The woman was, frankly, utterly forgettable.

At this point, she had draped herself all over Jean-Paul, who wore an expression that suggested he was planning on killing someone in the near vicinity. "You're really hot." She laughed drunkenly. "You're the hottest guy I've ever seen. Do you think that I'm hot?"

"No," Jean-Paul replied flatly.

She didn't seem to hear him. "I don't think my boyfriend thinks I'm hot. He lied to me. He told me that- " she took a step back, letting Jean-Paul go and she tugged up her shirt, exposing her abdomen. On the right side of her lower abs, just above the waistline of her jeans, sat a tattoo of the Spider-Man mask.

The design was awful work, Piotr knew, even though he was far from an expert in body ink. It looked a Band-Aid or a sticker out of a Crackerjack box.

"See, isn't it awesome?" She asked with delight, oblivious to how pitiful it truly was.

"That looks infected!" Bobby exclaimed, his usual tactful self.

"I was going to get a tattoo of the Green Goblin," the woman informed them, as if it were something to be proud of.

"Why?" Jean-Paul demanded, sounding angry. This was the most emotion Piotr had ever seen him display. "He's a murderous terrorist! You'd have to be an idiot to- you know what, I don't care. Not my problem."

"Well- " the woman tried to walk, but she stumbled and pitched forward. Jean-Paul made no move to catch her, but somehow she found her way into his arms again. "He murdered my best friend, when she was in college. He threw her off a bridge." She blinked. "Gwen. Her name was Gwen Stacey. My boyfriend was Gwen's boyfriend when she died, so I thought the tattoo would make him mad. I wanted revenge," she explained, as if this were perfectly normal behavior, "because he lied to me."

The four of them were stunned into silence; Jean-Paul looked murderous that he had to deal with the drunk, Saint-John wore an expression of disgust, Bobby still seemed dumbfounded by the horrendous tattoo, and Piotr himself was simply rendered speechless with disbelief by the entire situation.

"Carlie!" A voice shouted and two women ran up to them. The first was tall and muscular, wearing jeans and a puffy down vest and the other was thin, dressed like a punk-rocker, and covered in tattoos. Luckily for Piotr, neither of them were drunk.

"Sorry about this, boys," the punk-rocker said as the well-muscled woman pried Carlie off of Jean-Paul. "She's trashed out of her mind."

"We noticed," Jean-Paul informed her caustically.

They watched as the two women wrapped their arms around Carlie's should to support her, holding her upright between them and walked off down the sidewalk, before they disappeared into the throng of people moving about on the pavement.

Saint-John broke the silence between them with a raucous laugh. "Oh my God!" He gasped. "Can you imagine telling someone about this? We were ditching a field trip in New York City when this drunk ditzy ginger came up to us- "

"She wasn't a ginger," Bobby interrupted. "She was blonde."

Saint-John shook his head. "No, I remember. She had long red hair, pure ginger without highlights or anything and she wore it really flat, like she used a straightening iron. She had freckles and these hideous glasses with wide, plastic, rectangular frames that were such an ugly shade of purple I can't imagine why anyone would even wear them."

"She was blonde," Bobby argued, "she wore her hair in a bun, so I don't know how long it was. But she had a pale complexion, not as pale as Rogue or Jean-Paul," he said, glancing at the latter, who rolled his eyes, "but fair-skinned. And she wore oval wire-rimmed glasses.

"I thought her hair was between shades of red and brown," Piotr put in. "It was very wavy, like a shampoo commercial. She had tanned skin, as if she had spent a week at the beach. And she wore glasses with thin, black, plastic rectangle frames."

They turned to look at Jean-Paul.

"I don't care," he told them. He then noticed their determined expressions and added with an exasperated sigh, "She had light brown hair with medium skin and rectangular wire-framed glasses."

"Geez, all of our descriptions sound totally different," Bobby noted. "But we can all agree that she had glasses, right?"

"Definitely glasses." Saint-John nodded.

"Da," Piotr confirmed.

Jean-Paul was bored. "Can we go now?"

* * *

**A/N:** Kudos to anyone who gets the joke in this chapter.

And Jean-Paul, WTH, man? You don't like video games or know what ice cream trucks are? What's wrong with you?

And, LOL, Bobby: "That looks infected!" Bobby exclaimed, his usual tactful self.


	10. Kitty

"You know," Kitty whispered to Jubilee, "that was a really great movie."

"Totally," Jubilee agreed in a normal tone as she lounged against the base of a massive stone pillar outside the Central Park West entrance of the museum, watching people hurry up and down the steps.

"The cinematography was great," Kitty went on. "Plus, the architecture of those old buildings was amazing! All of the scenes were so well done, and the backgrounds were so beautiful- "

"So was Cillian Murphy," Jubilee interjected.

"Yes, it's pity that you'll never be," an arrogant voice jibed from the other side of the pillar.

The girls exchanged glances of disbelief and then started to round the pillar, only to meet Amara Aquilla halfway.

"Amara," Jubilee said, her voice hard. "Where's your lackey?"

"Right here," Rogue said, coming out from behind the pillar. The dyed white streaks were absent from her hair this week, and she looked at Jubilee with unveiled dislike in her gaze.

Trying to quell the jealousy she felt at the sight of the other girls' designer clothes, Jubilee demanded, "What are you doing out here?"

"The same thing you are." Amara flipped her hair over shoulder.

"You ditched?" Kitty asked in surprise.

"So did you." Amara glared at both of them.

"Well, I guess ditching isn't cool anymore," Jubilee commented contemptuously.

"Hey Jubilee, the sixties called, and they want their obnoxious colors back," Amara scorned, eyeing Jubilee's yellow jacket and hot pink skinny jeans.

"Stop arguing." Rogue ordered sharply. All three of them jumped at her commanding tone. "If we want to get back on the bus without being caught, we should work together."

Amara sneered. "I don't need the help of reprobates like these."

Jubilee stalked towards her. "What did you just call us?

With disparaging smile, Amara rolled her eyes. "It doesn't surprise me that you don't know. After all, Jubilee, you can't read, now can you?"

Instantly, anger clouded Jubilee's mind, leaving her unable to think about anything but retaliation. "You're dead!" Jubilee snarled, lunging forward.

Amara didn't flinch, just raised her eyebrows mockingly. Jubilee had just reached out to rip the egotistic smirk off of Amara's pretty face when a hand grabbed the back of her jacket, yanking her away from the other girl. Furious, she twisted in the firm grip to glare up at . . . a very handsome and well-built security guard who had golden blonde-hair and sapphire blue eyes.

"Excuse me, girls," he said, seeming perplexed as he surveyed their three mortified faces (and Rogue's blank expression), "what are all of you doing out here?" He glanced at the neon stickers they wore, designating them as field trip students, which they had neglected to remove from their persons. "Aren't you supposed to be with your classmates?"

* * *

**A/N:** That was for Song of Grey Lemons, who suggested they be caught by a guard. BTW, he's not just a regular security guard, though.

And in this AU, Jubilee has dyslexia, however, no one is quite aware of the exact problem yet. In canon, she has dyscalculia, which is dyslexia for math.


	11. Captain America

And so Steve Rogers wound up escorting the group of girls to the main information desk in the Theodore Roosevelt Memorial Hall, where the clerk paged one of the teachers for the high school they were from. Steve was slightly surprised by the school: the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning.

He didn't know the academy, but he would've expected gifted kids to behave slightly better. However, he was taken aback by their conduct during the time he spent waiting with them, which he unfortunately had to do as part of his "job".

The two dark-haired girls wouldn't stop bickering with one another, while the petite brunette brought herself into the argument by trying to moderate the spat and unintentionally raising their ire. Then there was that one quiet girl, whose oddly bright green eyes reminded him of someone he couldn't quite place, but with her completely black clothing and silent demeanor, struck him as eerie.

Steve was relieved when one of the chaperones, a young, platinum blonde lady with a very . . . womanly physique, her entire outfit gleaming white, who spoke in a cultured British accent, came to collect them.

"Thank you, sir, for assuring that my students were returned to me," she said, with smile that seemed just slightly artificial. "May I ask the name of such a fine gentleman?"

Steve is thrown off by the way the woman spoke of her students; the manner by which she spoke of them sounded more appropriate for possessions rather than teenage charges.

There was a _click-clack_ of heels from behind him, and out of the corner of his eye, Steve noticed Natasha, wearing the dark suit of a museum coordinator and her hair, dyed brown and coiffed into an impeccable French twist, unobtrusively maneuver behind the circular desk and begin addressing the young clerk as if she actually was her superior.

The presence of his friend and ally in this mission reassured him, and Steve responded amiably to the woman's inquiry: "Roger Stevens, at your service."

The woman's glacier blue eyes glittered when he spoke, and a feline smile curled onto her full lips, just a tad smug for his liking. "Well, Mr. Stevens, thank you again for your concern for my . . . _girls_."

Her voice left her throat in a husky purr, and Steve felt his ears turning red. He was very careful not to look back at Natasha.

"Just doing my job, ma'am," he managed to reply steadily.

Her smile twisted into a smirk. "Why, aren't you _the All-American Man_."

Steve was very careful not to allow his expression to shift, though he inwardly started at her choice of words and emphasis. "Thank you."

She smiled again, though there was a minor vulpine element to the gesture, and turned gracefully. "Come along, girls," she said over her shoulder.

Three of the girls immediately followed, but that one green-eyed girl stayed behind for several moments. She caught his gaze for a moment, and there was something in her eyes that Steve couldn't fathom. A warning? A threat? Satisfaction? Malice?

But before Steve could puzzle out why her green eyes seemed so familiar, she followed classmates out the front entrance.

Right. He was here to foil a robbery, not to ogle high school girls. He turned to Natasha, who had listened attentively to the exchange while appearing as if she were totally disinterested. "Ms. Rushman. I'll be returning to my regular post, then."

She nodded at him and said blandly, "Of course. Follow usual procedure, unless you run into another problem. Make certain to contact me if there is another issue, Mr. Stevens."

Steve smiled briefly, encouraged by her composure, before they went their separate ways.

* * *

**A/N:** Oh Emma, leave Steve alone, please. And yay for him and Natasha helping out with domestic threats instead of just supervillains!


	12. Jean Paul

"Mmmm," Bobby Drake said, as they shut the doors of the cab and stepped onto the sidewalk of West 77th Street. "That smells good." He turned in the direction of Starbucks, the source of the delicious coffee scent that wafted through the air, just past the cross walk, a couple of storefronts ahead. "Can we go?"

"It's four-forty," Jean-Paul informed him with an edge of impatience in his voice. "Mr. Summers said the buses would be leaving at five."

"So we have twenty minutes," Saint-John said. "Twenty minutes to walk down the street and then take the crosswalk to the right to get to the front of the museum. That's plenty of time."

"Oh, Sin, not you, too." Jean-Paul grimaced.

"'Fraid so." Saint-John shrugged.

"Oh, relax, J.P.," Bobby said genially, slinging an arm around his shoulders, which Jean-Paul immediately shrugged off. "This a great ending to a great day!"

"Great day?" Jean-Paul echoed. "We spent four hours at a video arcade."

"And we went bowling," Bobby reminded him. "And we met Spider-Man. He seemed pretty cool." He nodded, smiling. Then his smile faded. "What was my point again?"

You didn't have one," Jean-Paul coolly informed him. For God's sake, what was Drake smoking?

"Oh, yeah! You were worried we wouldn't have enough time," Bobby recalled. "Just roll with it. We'll get there in time."

"We don't know that we won't be delayed," Jean-Paul argued. "There could be complications. It probably won't be that easy." He grimaced and shot a look at Pitor, who had remained silent throughout this discussion, and, presumably, neutral. Russia wasn't one of his allies today, he supposed.

Saint-John nodded. "Right and if there are complications, we'll be able to think more clearly because we'll have a caffeine boost from the coffee. You hear me?"

Jean-Paul gritted his teeth. "The streets here take longer to navigate than the ones in Salem Center. Also, this place is considerably more dangerous, as we learned earlier today."

"Excuse me," a voice said behind him.

Jean-Paul to see a man, standing behind him, and he realized that during their heated debate, their little group had stretched out across the sidewalk, blocking the way.

"Sorry," he said flatly and moved toward Bobby, who raised an eyebrow and glanced at Pitor.

"Thank you." The man walked past, the leash of a chocolate labrador that hadn't quite grown to full size yet in one hand and using the other to grasp the hand of his small child, a boy about six or seven years old.

Jean-Paul watched them for a moment longer than necessary, unable to avoid thinking of his own father as the parent and child waited to cross the intersection.

Then it all happened so rapidly.

Another dog on the other side of the street began barking at the labrador puppy. The puppy, still a good size despite not being fully grown, yanked on leash, which slipped out of the father's hand, and darted out into the street.

"Seal!" The young child cried and, to the horror of Jean-Paul and his father, chased after the dog into the busy street and directly into the path of an oncoming city bus.

"Matthew, NO!" His father shouted, to no avail.

Time seemed to slow down around Jean-Paul. He moved past his classmates into the street, dashing to where the child was kneeling, grasping onto his puppy. He grabbed hold of both of them, scooping boy and dog into his arms and bolted back to the safety of the sidewalk before any traffic touched either of them.

He set them down gently on the sidewalk, and both the child's father and his classmates rushed over to them.

"Matthew!" The father lifted up his child off the ground, holding him tightly. "My God, what were you thinking?"

To Jean-Paul's discomfort, he noticed that several other people had paused in their excursion along the sidewalk and were looking at them.

If they had seen what happened- if they had seen him use his mutation-

"I don't know how to thank you," the father said, turning to Jean-Paul and his classmates. "But how did you ever manage- ?"

"I'm . . ." Jean-Paul wearily fumbled for the best word to describe himself. He was unable to reach a strong phrase, so he settled for the stock term. "- I'm different."

Bobby snorted.

"Well, I'm very glad that you are," the father said. "Are your parents nearby? I'd like to tell them what an upstanding, brave son they have."

The father's sincerity brought Jean-Paul to inwardly laugh without humor. The thought of his parents, who preferred not to acknowledge his existence, being greeted with such a strong statement about his character was darkly amusing. Then he became aware of what an awkward position he was in. His parents weren't in the city, but his teachers were, and he couldn't contact his teachers because he wasn't supposed to be outside the museum in the first place. Now, either he had to lie through his teeth or admit his misdeeds to a complete stranger. Neither option appealed to him, and his mind worked furiously, the gears turning to try to outline a third option.

Luckily, his close friend Saint-John came to his rescue. "Actually, sir, we're all here on a field trip for our school, with our teachers as chaperones."

"Is there any chance that one of them is nearby, then?" The man pressed.

"Actually, yes," said a voice with a lilting accent but severe tone.

A woman had emerged from the Starbucks.

A woman with long, white hair.

Ororo Munroe, their history teacher at the Institute.

They stared at her in shock.

"Hello boys," she said grimly, holding her latte in a death grip.

* * *

**A/N:**

Good for Jean-Paul, being heroic and all that stuff.

He calls Saint-John "Sin" as a nickname because "Saint-John" should be pronounced "Sin-jun".

I recently posted Jean-Paul's origin story about him and his twin sister Aurora, how he arrived at the Xavier Institute, and why she isn't there; it's called "Guilt Trips" in case you're interested.

And I'm just going to say this once, because it really bothers me: it's interesting to see how many people put this story on favorites/alert, yet never bother to review even once.

Let me know if you have any ideas for the final chapter! :)


	13. Scott

All of the errant students sat on a bench outside the headmaster's office, with only Jean-Paul and Rogue -no, Anna Marie, standing. They leaned against opposite sides of the wood-paneled wall, arms folded, and one knee bent, with the corresponding foot resting back on the wood; their poses mirrored each other's, and they stood as still as statues.

Scott surveyed the faces of his students, a muscle in his jaw twitching. Kitty's face was white, and Bobby stared at the floor. Saint-John wore a grimace, while Amara was sulking, and Jean-Paul, as usual, simply scowled in silence. Piotr seemed distinctly uncomfortable, and Anna Marie's expression was carefully constructed to give no indication of whatever she might have been thinking.

"I am very disappointed in all of you," Scott said, his voice perilously tranquil. "What you did was extremely foolish and dangerous. Piotr, Bobby, Jubilee, and Kitty, I expected better from you."

They kept quiet, but he saw Saint-John and Jean-Paul exchange a glance.

"There's no use lecturing you and telling you not to do it again," Scott continued, "because I'm not going to give you the oppurtunity. From this day forward, you will remain behind from field trips and spend the entire school day in a classroom, completing worksheets that will later be graded by your respective teachers."

"For the next month, at seven o'clock on Saturday morning, you will meet me in the garage to receive a menial task that I will select for you and you will use the day to complete that task until I say you're finished. Lastly, I will be sending a letter to your parents about this incident. That is all." Scott strode past them down the hall, barely able to contain his fury at their reckless and idiotic behavior.

"It's quite a shame," he heard Saint-John remark to the others before he was out of earshot. "I never got my coffee."

"Hey, at least we got to meet Spider-Man," Bobby said.

Scott just continued walking, filling his mind with thoughts of the chores he would assign to them on Saturday, forcibly tuning out their words. He really didn't want to know.

* * *

**A/N:** There you have it. The sequel to this story is "Kids These Days" and it is about their detentions.

Oh, and notice that Scott only tells certain students that he expects better from them. Smooth, Scott.

Would anyone be interested in another story with this cast of characters? If so, what characters do you prefer?

Thanks for all of the reviews!


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